In Time

by Fanny Priest

These have been days of not knowing what to say. Spring blooming blue along the roadsides. Doors open, wind whipping the late leathery leaves of the live oaks to the ground. The itch, the stunning sneeze of allergies.

Babies coming too soon and dying, tiny and perfect, in the middle of the night.

And I think, He had his life and death in the time of bluebonnets. And I think, Who was he, who hardly was. And I think, What part her grief, what part her joy, to hold and behold and let go. And what of mine, for her.

It's been going on too long, this fully awake nightmare, this slow-motion loss. The story isn't mine -- it is my darling girl's. Over a week now of waiting and wishing and giving up and relinquishing hope and starting all over again. A lifeline of thumb-typed texts, flurries of fucks and xo's, not nearly enough, but everything we've got. And, so, also, kind of enough.

Last night -- I feel I was awake in the sliver of time right before the final text came, the candle I lit for her, for them, keeping vigil by my bedside. His end for her beginning. I blew out the candle. Got up, threw back a shot of Jack Daniels, my own babes snug and sleeping. Why me, why her. All of the searching and not a damn bit of hope of finding the right answer.

What is there to say? I spoke of beauty, his, and sadness, all of ours'. And space. I left space. For what will grow out of this season of loss. For what will be shed, and then blow away. For what surely, in time, will bloom again.

Fanny Priest (she/her) is a queer, polyamorous yoga therapist witch living in Austin, TX. She has identified as a writer ever since her first encounter with Anne Shirley. An unapologetic stationery snob, she prefers to write longhand with Muji pens in Leuchtturm1917 notebooks. You can follow her obsessions with tarot decks, paper planners, decaf coffee, and making tiny altars everywhere on Instagram @theyogaofdesire.